Low cloud, field of peonies, Martinborough
Sleepless night
in your house
under the horizon—tiles
of an unfinished roof
sky of unfalling
leaves—you hold tightly
what you can: a farmer might lose
a paddock, a house disappear
down its staircase. This morning
knee-deep in fog, how it is
the peonies turn
their most avid reader
so suddenly
from their field.
Gregory O’Brien